Liberty is a marathon
by NCR Ranger
Summary: The IMC isn't fighting an army. It is fighting a force. An idea; freedom, sovereignty, and independence.


Frontier world of Ayyers 4

Outskirts of New Sydney.

* * *

" Shift it, Riflemen ! We have a schedule to keep, and IMC won't defeat itself ! "

A gruffly voiced loadmaster, his Frontier militia uniform's cleanliness a sharp contrast to those of the long columns of riflemen of the FMA ( Frontier Militia Army )'s 41st Rifles, forming up across the now quiet battlefield, gestured impatiently at them while standing in loading bay's entrance of the Crow dropships.

" Let's go ! Load up when called ! "

At his insistent shout, the column of riflemen edged forward again, with the ones at the very front clambering into the bay, their dusty ( and blood spattered ) boots thumping up the metal ramps, raising a rhythmic _thump, thump, thump_ , as they marched aboard,leaving the gunpowder reeking, burnt grasslands of the town's edges behind them .

Those were the ones at the lead, though. Many more waited behind them, for their own turn to board.

On their way, some men pulled off their helmets, running fingerless-gloved hands, still with lingering soreness from grasping weapon grips, through tousled hair, and across the grime that coated their faces. Others slowly adjusted the way their rifles were braced across their shoulders, seeking a balance of the weight of the weapons as they carried them. And, still others took the last few remaining drops of water from their canteens, rattling and shaking them to drain them 100 percent.

Others sat on their packs, getting weight off their legs, and sought at least a few minutes of shut eye, a luxury for the humble gun-toting

The behaviors of soldiers after a hard fought victory.

After virtually any battle, aside from an outright defeat, or mauling.

There's been many already in the past, and there'd be many more to follow, as long as the IMC remained a force on the Frontier- and them not being so didn't seem at all likely to be the case unless the Militia kept up the fight .

Which, was exactly what the men of the 41st Rifles Battalion were still busy with, and why they were departing Ayyers 4. They had more planets to land on, more locations and station to meet the IMC in battle. The Militia's brass ( which was a bit formal, considering that the Militia was still a ways from being a true unified army ), was busy shuffling its units around, and the 41st was one their favorites to toss into hot zones- which Ayyers 4 had certainly turned out to be.

At the moment, the riflemen still didn't know where they were headed next, as militaries generally don't have the decency to keep their own troops in the loop, but they figured wherever it was, it was somewhere far from here, and either crawling with IMC, or about to be before too long. The corporation's presence on the Frontier

More of them would be wounded on those future fields. _That_ was a constant they could be sure of, no matter where they were, or were sent.

The men still standing watched as those among them who had been hit, were being carried off, the first ones to leave. Most were borne on stretchers, by the diligent MNF ( Militia Naval Forces ) corpsmen, while the ones who were less badly hurt managed to limp and stagger their way forward, propped up by more corpsmen. The supply of Crows to airlift all personnel, wounded or otherwise, was limited, and those who'd been hit during battle were given priority.

The casualties, who were still conscious and could move their heads, still had enough strength to wave back at their better off comrades, and exchanged firm nods and raised hands and fists.

They didn't have to say anything to convey a clear and strong message: _We're rooting for you and we're all with you, even though you're laid out. You're still with us, and you can still get back to the fight._

 _And you're still alive. To avenge our fallen_

Their fallen.

Yes. That was specter of the aftermath It was unspoken by all, but keenly felt and remembered by all of them as well.

It was heavily weighing on the mind of everyone as well: the ones who weren't still breathing, to be standing in formation lines to board dropships, or still breathing to be getting ferried aboard them for treatment of their injuries.

They'd taken _losses_ here. It was not the worst the unit had experienced thus far- it wasn't the punishing encounter of Operation Fracture, or the hammering of Angel City- but that was, fundamentally, irrelevant. Those were _all_ losses. Every man here had lost one of his brothers in arms, in any one of those battles, in others, or on the field of combat today.

That's who the dead were to the living : their brothers, in more ways than one. They were all townsfolk and kinsmen here in the 41st and arguably, across the Militia. They were who they'd grown up with and known for years. Many of them had attended each other's weddings, for example, prior to signing up. They had gone into the ranks of the Militia surrounded by at least a few faces they'd known for years.

It'd spurred them on through the demanding rigors of every battle. It was a calming influence between them.

And, when any of them died, the memories they left behind kept the others driven.

The dead of this battle here had been the first to leave. That was the Militia's way: always recover and tend to the dead as swiftly as possible. No Militiaman wanted to be left on any battlefield after falling on it. He would want to be laid to rest on his homeworld, in either his home town, or the one he'd settled in before joining the Militia's ranks.

It was exactly what the men of the 41'st wanted for their lost brothers.

Even before the IMC, the denizens of the Frontier always took care of their own. They always took care to remind themselves that the land of every world here was _theirs_ , earned to live they died, no matter the cause, they wished to be buried in that ground.

Which, actually, even considering how exhausted they were, was something they were all willing to endure.

Men glanced at the sky overhead, as they stood, or moved forward a handful of yards, either ahead in the departure que , or actually onto one of the dropships.

Partially because that's where they knew their deceased were, but also because where the other worlds of the Frontier were. Out beyond the sky, among the stars.

Every one of them had lost someone to the IMC. Or, their home. Or, both. Until they'd booted the IMC out of the Frontier for good, they'd fight the enemy as often as they had to. A little rest in between each encounter, and they'd be all set for the next one.

As set as they could be, at least, without _complete_ rest, or having fully mourned all their lost.

" When do you think they'll realize what they're up against ? ", one of the riflemen asked, turning to face another nearby, as they finally reached one of the Crows, tramping up the boarding ramp, coated with dust, mud, and clinging grime from the boot soles of the men who'd entered before them, already seated along the sides of the utilitarian, partially lit troop bay.

The other rifleman removed his well used helmet- with a pack of chewing ginger slipped into the straps that ran around it- as they sat on the hull benches. The Crow's loadmaster, satisfied that the craft was full, signaled the crew chief, and the back ramp began to close.

" I mean, how many troops can the IMC have ? "

" However many we killed today less ", the second rifleman replied. " It wasn't enough, though. The more they send at us here, the less there are elsewhere for someone else to deal with "

" It'll do for one day's work ", the first remarked. " We'll just have to do it again tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after _that._ "

The second nodded firmly, clenching a fist.

" And we'll keep doing it, till the IMC's shattered beyond all repair. We'll have them pay in blood for everything they've done, for everything, and every _one_ they've taken from us. "

" We didn't ask for this fight. They brought it to us, and they brought it on their own heads. So we have to finish it. "

The first nodded now, leaning back against the bulkhead.

"If you want peace, arm for conflict. ", he noted.

" Right on. ", the second agreed, glancing over at the first, reading his name tab.

" Redding ? ", he read.

" Yeah, that's me ", Redding acknowleged, putting a fist out as he read the other's tab.

" Seflan, eh ? "

" That's the name I got. "

Seflan reached out, and thumped his own fist against Redding's.

" All the way, brother. ", Redding affirmed, with determination. " That's where we're taking this fight. "

" Amen to that. "

* * *

 _Aluta Continua. Victoria Certa ( The battles continue. We are certain of victory ),-_ Militia's rank and file's motto .


End file.
